The last days of spring
 
trickle out the garden gate
 
like a desert stream.

 
 
 

Deserts I have walked
 
still somehow remember me—
 
stones and dust and thorns.

 
 
 

Again and again
 
a trackless desert appears
 
in my late spring dreams.

 
 
 

On a desert path
 
songs leak out of the pebbles,
 
cries arise from thorns.

 
 
 

Early morning rain—
 
all my plans evaporate
 
as a desert stream.

 
 
 

Cloudless April day—
 
I walk a desert pathway,
 
consoled by birdsong.

Zero

 
 
 

zero Celsius—
 
dreaming of the pyramids
 
and the desert sands

Snow

 
 
 

longing for some snow
 
all the little desert boys
 
making sand angels